Why Is A Jedi Like A Writing Desk?
by Eliza2000
Summary: WARNING! !SLASH! QuiGon Jinn is lost in Mos Eisley and from his choice of guide stems a whole new world of possibilities. And trouble. WJWD pilot movie sort of thing. VERY AU!


WJWD?:1

Why is a Jedi like a Writing Desk?

**Meeting**

by **Eliza**

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**Rated:** Dunno. Changes as it goes on so, **18** to be safe.  
**Pairing: **Han/Qui-Gon**  
'Verse: **AU  
**Warnings:** M/M, gay, yaoi, guys together. Probably violence, language, torture, stuff like that.  
**Spoilers:** No. Totally AU  
**Notes:** This story will probably have subsequent vigs if I like where it goes. Really, I'm just seeing what happens with my AU slash skills (of which I currently have none) and my AU slash experience (ditto).  
**Feedback: **What, you want the boys to do this for nothing?  
**Disclaimer:** These boys aren't mine, they're GL's. I just like to watch while they play nice.  
**Summary:** Qui-Gon learns what it's like when you don't know your way around somewhere you need to get out of.

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BTW, my TTWDAJ series is on hold because my laptop died :(

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A new experience is always worrying, especially if you're having said new experience in your late thirties, when you're sure you can encounter nothing new. And especially when the experience is worrying in itself, like being lost in a totally unfamiliar spaceport in a totally unfamiliar city on a totally unfamiliar planet. And especially if you're a Jedi.

Unfortunately for Qui-Gon Jinn, he was, on that particularly hot and dusty winter's day, all of those things.

"I'm not lost," he muttered as he squinted at the 'Sleaze Alley' strip club for the seventh time in the past hour. "I'm a Jedi. An experienced Jedi. I can't get lost."

Half an hour later, however, he was standing at a bar in…whatever cantina this was, a small whiskey on the counter in front of him, looking as forlorn and lonely as the little glass tumbler did.

"I'm lost," he confided to the whiskey.

"Nah," a young man said from the shadows next to him. "You're in the right place."

Qui-Gon jumped, startled that had not felt this man approach - he should have. He turned around and took a breath, felt his face crease into a frown and his shoulders tense as he made ready to question – and fend off, if necessary – the stranger. But the man was grinning widely and had evidently been trying to start a conversation.

"Oh?" Qui-Gon returned. "And what brings you to that conclusion?"

The man seemed to scrutinize him.

"You need a guide. Or, at least, someone to point you in the right direction."

"And you've gleaned this information from my conversation with the whiskey?"

"I've gleaned this information," the man drawled, "from the fact that I saw you pass by at least four times before you came in here."

Then he shrugged.

"And from your conversation with the whiskey."

Qui-Gon offered a defeated smile and turned back to his drink.

"Bartender," the man said nonchalantly, stepping into the light, "Another for myself and the gentleman. And keep the change."

Qui-Gon lifted an eyebrow as the man set credits on the counter – too many of them: He was young, much younger than Qui-Gon had believed. He had estimated that they were about the same age. This man was in his mid-twenties at most.

"You're paying for my drink," he told the man, undeterred. "And without claiming what's yours. What do you want in return?"

The man's gaze grew suddenly darker.

"What are you willing to give?"

Qui-Gon felt the tension return to his shoulders, the frown to his face, and realised that he didn't know, _couldn't feel_, what the man wanted. But the young man laughed.

"Relax, friend," he said, tapping Qui-Gon's shoulder good-naturedly with the palm of his hand. "I only want to offer you a guide. Hire me and I guarantee you'll make it out of here alive."

"If I don't hire you, would you see to it that I don't?"

This time, the man only chuckled.

"No, no, that's not my department. In fact, I'm quite good at avoiding that type of person. They like to use me as target practise."

Now it was Qui-Gon's turn to scrutinize.

"You're still alive, and unharmed as far as I can tell."

"I'm good, they're not," the man answered, his tone decidedly indifferent. "What do you say?"

Qui-Gon swirled the liquor in the tumbler.

"What's your cost?"

The man laughed again, quietly but with a strength behind it, a clear knowledge, a realisation, and Qui-Gon picked up on that at least.

"Only money, friend."

Qui-Gon nodded, aware now that the man was concealing part of his motive.

"Spending my money is an advantage to me because it keeps me breathing. Other than the obvious financial benefits, how does it benefit you?"

The man gave him a curious look but then regained his previous composure.

"I get a recommendation when you tell the story to your friends about how you survived Mos Eisley."

Qui-Gon nodded again.

"A fair exchange, I wager."

"I wouldn't," the man answered, "I'm a better gambler than you."

"Really?"

"I'm a better gambler than anyone. Wanna bet?"

This time it was Qui-Gon who laughed.

"Then I accept you as my guide. And, I need to find a discreet pilot – a good one."

"Then you're in luck!" the man told him. "I know the best pilot in the sector."

"Oh?" Qui-Gon questioned. "And who might that be?"

"Easy," the man replied. "You're lookin' at him."


End file.
